


hollow and full

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps he’s analysing too hard, definitely is, but John often sees the things in life that are so obvious, so crystal clear that they often get glazed over, forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hollow and full

It’s not fair really, because the day had started out full of contentment and promise - (milk; still in date, toast; perfection, shoulder; humming peacefully, Sherlock; on a case) - and has rather spectacularly snowballed into a _gigantic mass_ of shit.

Now, in the hollow of a pretty chilly warehouse somewhere in the East End, the toast is beginning to wear thin in John’s complaining belly, the tea is generally lacking and his shoulder - burning, seething, because he happens to be shackled with his arms taught behind his back, to a not _quite_ so thrilled Sherlock.

Of course, it's not much of a surprise that the days series of events have resulted in being blindfolded and cuffed and generally _manhandled_ by two body odour ridden thugs. Chasing criminals usually ends in some sort of minor disaster (and this _is_ minor, despite the fact that John can’t actually feel his legs anymore and the fibres of the fabric blinding him are _seriously_ itching his nose) so really, he's not too worried at the moment. He can feel Sherlock behind him, similarly cross legged and trapped on the floor, their wrists cuffed together, and it’s kind of reassuring. Could be worse.

“We could try um, moving? Anchor ourselves up, if we lean against each other-“

“Pointless” Sherlock cuts him off, his voice oddly huffed and far away in the echoes of the warehouse.

“We should at least try, Sherlock, I think I’m getting cramp in my actual _toes_ , here”

(He really is)

“There are four stocky, heavy brutes outside the door, John, each armed, two with flip knives  - and although I’m truly _brilliant_ in hand to hand combat, and you’re not too shoddy yourself when the occasion calls - given our current incapacity to _see_ , we would stand little chance of making it passed the threshold so-”

John heaves a sigh and doesn’t listen to the rest, because that breakfast really wasn’t satisfying enough to carry him through being kidnapped and dumped in a cold unforgiving environment, never mind through one of Sherlock’s sentences. Oh yes - _sentences_ \- the man doesn’t pause or breathe or take any of the precautions necessary to remain conscious and speaking at the same time, so sentences they very much _are_.

Several blissfully silent minutes pass where John flexes his toes in an attempt to get the blood moving again, winces as tiny cactus like spikes bloom under his skin. It’s only after the needles are gone that he hears it, quiet and controlled but definitely there.

“Sherlock, are you shivering?”

The man _pffts_ , blows his lips together in denial, shifts and eases away from John as much as physically possible, but he doesn’t get far enough. John can still feel the tiny tremors of cold skittering over Sherlock’s skin even though he can’t _actually_ press his fingers to them, the small vibrations of bone and muscle attempting to regain normal body temperature is a giveaway. John’s a doctor, and sometimes Sherlock forgets this, just as often as he forgets that John is not, _in fact_ , stupid.

It is fairly nippy, John will give him that. Actually, it’s a little more than that; his own nose is reddening, the hairs on his arms are standing to attention against the atmosphere, guarding his goosebumped skin from a slow icy breeze. He hadn’t noticed it, to be honest, until Sherlock’s nerves had started to protest behind him.

“I may be a little less than comfortable, yes, but fine, John, fine”

Total bullshit, obviously; Sherlock’s syllables are clashing, fighting to remain the average pace necessary to form words properly, he stumbles on the fs, sighs short through his nose and John stops himself from laughing at the irony of this being the one _singular_ occasion Sherlock has not worn his coat.

It’s hard to coordinate with his vision compromised; John takes a few embarrassing seconds to remember where his hands actually are, and how best to twist himself without ripping his shoulder clean off. Each pair of shackles binds one of his wrists to Sherlock’s corresponding one, and though the task of standing up wouldn’t be too much trouble, moving himself to wrap his arms backwards around Sherlock is proving difficult.

Mostly because Sherlock won’t bloody cooperate.

“Good God John, what _are_ you trying to do? I told you, I’m married to my work”

Johns rolls his eyes at the sure smirk gracing Sherlock’s lips, thinks for a moment about jabbing him in the ribs instead of keeping to the ethical code of doctoring.

“I’m trying to warm you up actually, you git, guide my arms round”

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth; John senses the mind confined in the skull centimetres from his own working, weighing up the pros (warmth, glorious warmth) and the cons (sentiment, admittance of needing help), deciding whether or not to let John do his damn job and _care_ for him.

That’s the only reason John is suggesting it - because he does, irrevocably, care. Ultimately so, destructively so, dangerously so. And Sherlock, too, has at least the capacity to give his own slightly warped version of it; he cares enough to bring John to crime scenes, to not put body parts in the bread bin anymore, to listen (rarely, mercilessly) to John when he’s missing something that _bit too_ obvious.

“Fine, do your thing, doctor”

With that Sherlock shifts, brings his arms to wrap around his own body, thus simultaneously drawing John’s awkwardly angled muscles and bones with them. John hisses through his teeth as his shoulder pulls and protests, bites back the pain bubbling just behind his lips, wants to curse in agony but refrains - instead, he flats his hands against Sherlock’s shirt clad chest, the tendons jump for a breath before settling beneath his touch, the gentle thrum of shivers beat against palms.

“That okay?” John asks, tentatively, slowly, because Sherlock’s hot, not cold. _Hot hot hot_ beneath him, sweat gathers in the creases of John’s heart line, life line, spidery crevices, the grooves in the pads of his fingers; everything needles into the contact of skin to cotton. John begins to move his hands, smooths them up and down, afraid that if he doesn’t, fingers will betray him and drift to buttons instead.

“Yes, John, fine, it’s.” Then Sherlock flexes his spine, rolls it against John’s perfectly straight and tensed back, whispers; “Good, _good_.”

It’s scares John how quickly he finds himself needing to please Sherlock; in _all_ things, a constant battle and pull and warp of desperate acceptance, pleasure, a sweet smile that breaks the hollows of  high set cheekbones and it’s _worth it,_ being second to everything, to see that, to hear the small secret breaths that Sherlock is blowing into the prickly air.

John feels somewhat like a marionette as he is guided further around Sherlock’s lithe torso. Another hiss of held back pain as the entire length of Sherlock’s back meets his own, as their shoulders jostle and Sherlock practically attempts to _nest_ into him. John falls his head back against the nape of an exposed neck, curls tickling his ears, breathes and lets himself be placed wherever Sherlock sees fit. In this, and everything, Sherlock _has_ him.

“Do tell me if you need to move” Sherlock says, humming contentedly in a way that leads John to believe that that’s false hope, at best.

Though he does relinquish _some_ control, lets his wrists go half limp so that John can better move his hands; better flatten and mould and trace with his fingertips, quicker and _quicker_ and _good_ , until he’s practically rubbing Sherlock’s chest, to warm him up; warm him up because he’s cold, Sherlock’s _cold_ and that's not good, how can John allow such a thing, how can he possibly _not_  do this, this friction and touch and he’s getting _greedy_ , now.

“You’ve stopped” What an observation, from Sherlock, deadpan loud despite their proximity. “Why?”

“Shoulder, I need to - it’s, I need to move it”

Which is true, technically, so John breaks his hands away and tugs their combined wrists down, presses his palms to the flat of the floor. Not nearly as golden beneath his flesh as Sherlock, but necessary; grounding, earth, reality, _cold_.

His whole _genetic make-up_ wants Sherlock. Betraying him, trying to fit and shape and fuse atoms, to follow right from day one, a traitor; gluttonous in its aching and needing such satisfaction. John thinks that he could probably, if he let himself, become part of Sherlock, be everything he needs and is missing, in all things, in life’s entirety - and although he suffers, does foolish things for Sherlock that he would never do for another, John still has an ounce, a _sliver_ of self-preservation left, will not succumb. Because, if he’s truly honest, John doesn’t _trust_ him - this equally hollow and full man - doesn’t trust him not to leave, disappear like summer rain at the crescendo of sentiment.

Perhaps he’s analysing too hard, definitely is, but John often sees the things in life that are so obvious, so crystal clear that they often get glazed over, forgotten. John takes these things and _keeps_ them, buries them in his jumper, nurtures them until they become ideas and more than coincidences, sometimes useful musings that culminate in the solving of a case. And other times, result in questioning his very _self._

And, yet -

“You’re _thinking,_ John. Just touch me _,_ instead”

John closes his eyes even though he needn’t bother, even though his sight has been taken and all he can really sense is the life threading and weaving through Sherlock’s pores, as he touches - twists his neck to push his nose deep into smoky hair, searching the follicles; seeking, _listening_ , for the truth.


End file.
